


Wet

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, MacLeod's island, a canoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:53:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: It's a well-known fact that Methos is not a fan of boats. MacLeod overlooks this. He pays for it.
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	Wet

"I. Don’t. Like. Boats." The words were bitten out with an ice-cold precision that should have warned MacLeod to back off. But never let it be said that a MacLeod ever did anything as sensible as taking heed of warnings.

"It's only a small boat," he coaxed in what he hoped was a winning tone.

"The size," Methos snapped, "has a direct and inverse bearing on--"

"I'm not asking you to row the damned Atlantic," MacLeod cut in, rapidly losing patience. Methos had been in an odd mood ever since he'd picked him up at the airport for what should have been a relaxing weekend just chilling with good food, good alcohol and good company. The news that Dawson wouldn't be joining them as previously arranged seemed to have been the last straw. Until they'd reached the jetty, then MacLeod had discovered that the last straw bore a remarkable resemblance to the perfectly serviceable canoe that awaited them. "All we have to do is cross a narrow stretch of water between here and the island. Where," he went on, inspired, "there is a roaring log fire, steaks with all the trimmings waiting for me to cook them, beer, spirits and wine. What more could you want?"

"A bridge," Methos cut back, hunching further into his heavy woolen overcoat. It hung around him like a pall, disguising the lean, powerful frame beneath.

"For God's sake! What the hell is the matter with you?" Neither Dawson nor Methos had been to the island before, and MacLeod had been looking forward to showing them his sacred ground haven. "Do immortals hit the male menopause at five thousand years, or something?"

"Oh, it's something, MacLeod! You never said anything about boats!"

"I didn't know I had to. It's a fucking _island_!"

"So build a fucking _bridge_!"

"You're just being unreasonable! And juvenile!"

"Juv--!" Methos took a deep breath, his mouth pinched to a vicious line. "That's it." He turned on his heel and stalked away, boot-heels ringing on the wooden planks.

"Oh, no, you don't!" MacLeod barked. He made a lightning-fast grab at Methos' shoulder and spun him round. Methos jarred MacLeod's hand away with an equally swift block, stepping sideways--and his heel caught on a mooring ring.

With a squawk of outraged surprise, Methos fell back. MacLeod lunged to catch him but was not quite quick enough, and Methos disappeared off the edge of the jetty. Seconds later, he vanished into the cold water of the lake in an explosion of spray, and the white noise grate of his Presence was abruptly gone.

"Oops," MacLeod muttered, suddenly remembering the jagged stumps of previous jetties that lay just below the surface.

He wasn't overly concerned. Admittedly there were those underwater hazards, and the lake was some seven or eight feet deep by the landing stage and barely above freezing, but neither would do any permanent damage. At least, no lasting physical harm to the one so unceremoniously immersed, but what they might do to their friendship was another matter entirely. He hovered anxiously, waiting for Methos to surface, but the tell-tale Presence didn’t return, and a homicidal immortal did not come out of the murky depths like a blood-seeking parody of Venus Rising From the Foam.

"Shit!" MacLeod dropped to his belly on the planks, peering down into the silt-laden water. Something long and dark hung just below the surface. A body, face down, blood threading away from a head-wound.

"Shitshitshit!" There was nothing for it. He was going to have to go in himself. But he didn’t rush. A dead Methos was far more easily handled than a soaking wet, mad as hell, vengeance-bent killer with a long sword.

In the event, MacLeod managed to stay reasonably dry. He broke a long, stout branch from the nearest tree, used it to snag the body and tow it to the shore. Then, grunting with the effort of lifting a solidly muscled man plus what seemed his own weight in waterlogged clothes, he heaved Methos over his shoulder, thanking his lucky stars his own sensible parka was waterproof. From then on it was child's play to carry him to the end of the jetty and drop him into the canoe. Their few items of luggage could be collected later.

Once out of the water, of course, Methos would revive, so MacLeod broke all records from mainland to island, hauled Methos into the cabin and dumped him in front of the hearth. A few pokes and more logs made sure the carefully banked fire blazed into life, and he sat back on his heels to plan his next moves.

Methos lay in an ungainly sprawl, eyes closed, chest still, water gradually pooling around him.

Towels. Lots of them. And the rag rugs from in front of the couch and from the bedrooms. And then he would have to get rid of as much of Methos' soaked clothing as he could before the man woke up and tried to murder him. Not that it was his fault. None of it was. But that wouldn't stop the old bastard from heaping all the blame on him. It was probably just as well Joe hadn't been able to come along. He'd have hurt himself laughing.

Discarding his parka on the couch, MacLeod collected all he needed and dropped the load of towels and rugs by the fire, then turned his attention to the corpse on his floor.

Who'd have thought the usually cat-agile Methos could be such a klutz? Amusement warred with his sense of grievance, and MacLeod was sniggering as he carefully removed the scabbarded broadsword from Methos' coat. He carried the weapon into the kitchen, drew it from its plain leather sheath and laid both across the kitchen sink. The metal would not come to any harm: a fine sheen of oil coating the blade.

Back in the living room, he knelt to pull at the sleeves of the overcoat. But to little effect. The sodden garment was heavy, made of the finest wool and with a silk lining. It clung to Methos' sweater-clad arms as if Velcroed there. A quick glance told him that Methos still wasn't breathing, so he threw caution to the winds and unceremoniously rolled the limp corpse as he needed to yank off the coat. By way of apology and to protect his floor from what little blood there was, he folded one of the towels and pillowed Methos' head on it.

Quickly MacLeod levered off Methos' shoes, stuffed them with newspaper and put them beside the hearth, then peeled off the wet socks. The long, high-arched feet with their rather elegant toes were chill to the touch, but there was something about the architectural lines of them that made him think of da Vinci or Michelangelo....

Giving himself a mental kick, MacLeod got on with his task. There was no telling how long he had before he'd need to hunt for cover. At least the sword was out of Methos' reach. Quickly he pulled off the man's cream cable-knit sweater, to find a layer of green cashmere underneath. He paused, staring at it. Methos hated to be cold. And wet. Taking more care this time, MacLeod eased the wet wool from his body to reveal a third layer of knitwear--brown cashmere this time--and reached across him to throw another log on the fire.

The renewed light gilded the raptor-curve of Methos' nose, the arch of his eyebrow, the sculpted shape of his mouth and the planes of cheekbone and jaw. Methos' hair was beginning to dry into untidy waves that softened the lines of his face and gave the illusion of youth.

"How old were you when you first died?" Macleod whispered. "Do you even know?" Probably not. He'd once told MacLeod that everything before his five thousand years was a blur, which begged the question of his true age. If he'd been telling the truth. "You're an aggravating piece or work, d'you know that?" he went on, voice little more than a murmur. "But--" A rush of deep affection brought a rueful smile to his face and gentled his hands as he took off the third sweater.

This time a white cotton shirt met his gaze. Still wet, it clung like a second skin, limning the flowing shapes of muscles over bones, the lightly tanned body within showing a warm ivory tint through the fabric. The warmth was false. Under MacLeod's hands he was so still and cold he could have been a statue conjured out of finest marble. But he wasn't some exquisite piece of art, he was--or should be--a living, breathing, incomparably unique pain in the ass who somehow added necessary layers to MacLeod's life when he was around.

"Come on," MacLeod whispered. "Wake up." And to hell with the consequences. He spread his hands over Methos' chest, as if he could trigger revival with his own body heat, his own quickening.

The surge of life-force was as abrupt as a switch being thrown. It swept around and into him, flowed through his hands and arrowed straight to his groin. Methos' ribs lifted, his head pressed back on the makeshift pillow and his mouth opened, drawing in that first, vital, breath, and MacLeod had to lock his muscles to stop himself bending down to taste those parted lips.

Suddenly he wanted this man, burned for him in a way he hadn’t experienced in years, and could not have taken his hands away if his life depended on it. Which it probably did. Any moment now-- But it didn’t happen. Methos lay there, breathing quietly, relaxed and apparently still unconscious. But he was awake and aware, MacLeod was certain of that.

He could feel the living warmth spreading through Methos with every beat of his heart, and could feel as well the way the man's nipples contracted to peaks under his fingertips. Instinctively his fingers flexed, a gentle scrape of nails over damp fabric and sensitive flesh, and Methos' breath hitched. He didn't protest, didn't open his eyes, and didn’t move away.

MacLeod found he was holding his breath and let it out in a sigh.

He'd asked an unspoken question, and consent had been given. A new path opened before them, or one as old as mankind. MacLeod didn’t know if this would be a one-time-only encounter or the beginning of something enduring that would last for years--centuries--and right then he didn’t care. His world narrowed down to six foot and some 180 pounds of enigma, and all he could use to express the emotions in him was his own body.

Slowly MacLeod lowered his head until his lips rested on the coolness of damp cotton. There was a faint smell of lake, but the other equally light scent that filled his nostrils was all Methos, and evoked summer days, deserted beaches and naked bodies in the sun. The small nub beneath tempted his tongue and he flicked across it. A gratifying quiver ran through Methos, and encouraged, MacLeod gently suckled on the nipple through the fine material. Then not so gently. At the same time his fingers were paying attention to the other nipple in a rhythmic rolling pinch that echoed what his mouth was doing to its twin. MacLeod glanced up, not pausing in his ministrations, and saw a slight upward curve to Methos' mouth. It was very close to being a smirk. So he bit a little harder and won a purring, "Mmmph," from his victim.

MacLeod smiled and sat back, watched the smirk become a frown. It disappeared as he splayed his hand over Methos' breastbone. Unhurried, he curled his fingers, gathering cotton, then smoothed it over the contours of those firm pectorals. The fabric was drying, the glow of lightly tanned skin not so clearly seen through it. Time to move on.

The buttons were mother-of-pearl, small discs that shimmered iridescent in the light of the flames. With meticulous care, MacLeod slipped them from their buttonholes one by one, tugged the shirt free of the jeans and spread it away from Methos' torso. Framed by the white his tan was more noticeable. Methos had been spending his days in a sunnier place than this part of the USA. Against the translucent brown, his nipples were pebbled coins of dark rose, and when MacLeod leaned down to draw one into his mouth, Methos sighed, his spine arching, pushing into the caress.

"Duncan...."

Desire coiled tighter in MacLeod's belly. Of all his friends, Methos rarely used that name. Usually it was Mac or MacLeod. To hear his given name whispered on a sigh here and now and by this man was startlingly erotic. His arousal was uncomfortably confined by his cord pants, but he ignored it for now and stretched on his side, lying close to but not quite touching his soon-to-be lover.

"Methos...." he murmured and kissed that maddening, enticing, infuriating mouth, tracing the lift of Methos' smile with his tongue until the man parted his lips and let him in.

Heat and sensation ripped through MacLeod and he deepened the kiss, feeding on the mouth that moved and drew on him with equal fervor. Their tongues touched, slid together, not dueling but dancing, heightening the pleasure until for one wild moment MacLeod thought he might come from that alone.

Finally, Methos moved, his hands burying themselves in MacLeod's hair and holding his head in place while Methos took control of the kiss, plundering MacLeod's willing mouth with silken fire. It was exhilarating, addictive, and by Methos' reaction, he was as hungry for this as MacLeod.

Slowly they broke apart, eyes intent on each other, speaking without words. Then MacLeod bent to kiss along the line of Methos' jaw to his ear, suckled and nibbled on the small lobe. The line of tendon enticed his mouth down to the swell of muscle where neck and shoulder joined in perfect symmetry, and that in turn brought him to the firmness of bone beneath skin that was Methos' clavicle. It was shaped for his caresses and he worshipped every inch of it with lips and tongue.

Methos' responses were sinfully erotic--breathy moans, sighs, and a slow sensuous writhing that tested MacLeod's self-control to its limit. Still those hands in his hair guided him, not that he needed the hint to work his way down Methos' torso, delineating every muscle and bone exposed to his exploration. They both knew where this would end, but MacLeod was in no hurry to get there. Not when the journey was so satisfying.

Eventually his tongue slipped into Methos' navel, teased around the small hollow, then he nipped at the dark hair that led in a thin line under the still wet waistband of Methos' jeans. MacLeod sat up, turning to kneel beside him, and unfastened the top button. Beneath the lake-darkened fabric swelled an interesting erection, and MacLeod took especial care as he slowly slid the zipper down and folded back the opened jeans so that Methos' groin was displayed within a V-shaped frame.

Sandwiched between Methos' skin and the denim, Methos' pale blue boxers were still damp. The blackness of his pubic hair showed through, as did the warm tints of his skin. His engorged penis was a darker hue beneath the cotton, and the scent of his arousal was intoxicating. MacLeod leaned down and breathed it in, drinking the aroma, his lips barely touching the damp cloth. The wetness there wasn't the chill of the lake. In contrast it was hot from Methos' body, and when MacLeod touched his tongue to it, he tasted the salty earthiness of precome. A heavy pulse ran through Methos' cock, and beneath its covering, it rose to press against his mouth.

Methos shuddered, as if he was using every ounce of selfcontrol not to drive his hips up and seek a deeper contact. MacLeod chuckled, the sound breathless in his own ears. There was a kind of effervescent insanity bubbling through him, part simple need, part sexual heat, and partly the sheer joyous celebration of the chemistry that seethed between them. "No need to rush this," he murmured, his lips moving over the tented boxers. "We've got the rest of the day." He kissed the cotton that covered the head of Methos' penis, tracing the shape of the glans with the tip of his tongue. "All night." Another kiss and a gentle suck this time. "All weekend." A kiss and slide of his tongue down the pulsing vein. "As long as you want."

"Is this an apology?" Methos demanded huskily. "Because if it is, I can tell you it'll take a long time for me to forgive--ah!" He paused with a sharp gasp as MacLeod sucked again, nipping gently with his teeth.

"Then I'll just have to keep on apologizing...."

This time it was Methos who chuckled. "Oh, yes," he breathed. "You certainly will. Over and over--come up here, I want to kiss you." MacLeod obeyed, crawling up his body to claim the eager mouth, and to be claimed in his turn by lips and a probing tongue that sought to lick their combined taste from his palate. "You're overdressed," Methos pointed out breathlessly when they finally parted, and he tugged at MacLeod's sweater.

MacLeod sat up and pulled sweater and t-shirt together over his head, then turned to get rid of his boots and socks. When he looked round Methos hadn't moved, was just lying there watching him, a small inscrutable smile curving the corners of his mouth.

For a moment they gazed at each other, and MacLeod knew himself lost in those fathomless hazel eyes that glinted gold in the firelight. No matter where their friendship went after this weekend, for him it would be forever transmuted. Maybe Methos would simply disappear as he had so often and effectively in the past, Perhaps he would drift in and out of MacLeod's life and bed as Amanda did, recreating the wild magic that lay between them now. Or it might be that these hours would be all they would have as lovers. That thought hurt a little.

"You're thinking too much," Methos whispered. He shrugged off his shirt and stretched out his arm in invitation, the light from the flames gilding the elegant lines of muscle over bone and tendon. His eyes were hooded, the planes of his face highlighted with strokes of glimmering bronze, and he filled MacLeod's sight and heart like none other in all his life. He blinked, bemused, unsure quite how or when that had happened. "Come here," Methos said again, a huskiness in his voice that stroked velvet fingers across MacLeod's nerve ends.

Instead MacLeod reached for Methos' jeans. Peeling the denim from those long limbs wasn’t easy. They weren't close-fitting as jeans went, but the water in the fabric made it cling to Methos like a second skin. MacLeod persevered, dragging jeans and boxers off together and throwing them across the room, careless of where they might fall. He got rid of the rest of his own clothes, and would have settled again on his knees between Methos' spread thighs if the man hadn't suddenly sat up and hooked his arms around MacLeod's neck.

Pulled off-balance and down, MacLeod found himself lying on his side, one of Methos' legs wrapped around his, their groins pressed together. Methos' erection was nudging his own, two solid bars of heat against his belly. Methos' hand was warm on the nape of his neck, holding him for their kiss. His other hand wormed between their bodies and gathered up both cocks.

Involuntarily MacLeod's hips jerked, driving into that strong grasp, feeling the delicious slide of moist, hot skin on skin. Methos was moving against him, a slow, steady thrusting that demanded he match it. Match it he did, feeding on Methos' hungry mouth and drinking every gasp, pouring his own breath into his lover until the pleasure soared and seared and it seemed to him that they were sharing their very souls.

For a timeless age they moved together in perfect harmony, their bodies riding an unhurried inevitability that lifted them to a mutual climax and brought them down again in a leisurely spiral of sated delight. Hearts slowing from the race, breathing evening out, they lay locked together and for a long time they didn’t speak. The silence was contented, comfortable, and after a while Methos began to laugh quietly.

"That was unexpected," he murmured into MacLeod's hair.

"Mmm," MacLeod answered. "Apology accepted?"

"Are you kidding? I may never forgive you. You'll have to apologise on a regular basis for the foreseeable future."

"Sounds good to me," MacLeod said, turning his head a little and kissing his temple. "So what was with the bad mood? Time of the month?"

"Don't start. I was--not looking forward to the weekend."

"Oh." MacLeod drew away a fraction, and Methos' arms tightened around him. "Why?"

"Because I've wanted this for longer than I care to say," he answered, shrugging. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I decided decades ago I wouldn't go in for affairs with immortals. Not any more. You've been testing my resolve for years, and I thought it would be easier if Joe was here as well. When he cried off--" He stopped and shrugged again. "I couldn't see any way out of it, not without causing a major incident. The bloody canoe just about capped it."

"And now?" MacLeod asked, his voice unaccountably husky.

"Now," Methos said with a spurious pomposity, "in the light of your apology, I've reassessed the situation and I'm making an exception to my rule."

"Good." MacLeod sighed, a smile growing. "I take it you'll be staying for the rest of the weekend, then?"

"That depends." Methos frowned at him, nearly cross-eyed with proximity. "If you're intending to put your clothes back on, I'll be leaving as soon as I can unpack some dry gear."

"I don't think that'll be happening," MacLeod said smoothly.

Nor did it. Somehow Methos found a lot of sins, past and present, for which MacLeod needed to make atonement.


End file.
